Page 14 of Make Mine Sweet
“What was that?” Pierce asks.
I barely hear him. Tess steps over the threshold, watching her son. Her gaze cuts to me, and she offers a small smile before going back to keeping an eye on the excitement in the yard.
I am spectacularly bad at my new hobby.
All I can do is stare. Tess in her casual outfit, messy hair, and rosy cheeks scrambles my brain.
“Uh, that was the TV,” I say into the phone after too many seconds of silence.
“It didn’t sound like?—”
“Gotta go.” I end the call before he can finish.
Then I just stand here on my side of the porch, decked out in my worn sweatpants and a Vaughn Mountain Views T-shirt. Probably looking just as feral as I did the day we met. I sure haven’t done anything to change my look.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Tess says.
“You didn’t.” I would have hung up on him eventually if he’d kept going with that line of conversation.
She gestures at the chaos in the yard. “Is this okay with you?”
“Doesn’t bother me.” Dutch is loving it. I’m not sure which of the two is more excited. “Is it okay with you?”
She watches as they tumble in the grass. “I don’t mind, as long as he doesn’t bite.”
I shrug. “The boy’s teeth are so blunt, Dutch wouldn’t even feel it.”
Her eyebrows tug together. Guess my little joke didn’t land.
“Dutch isn’t aggressive,” I tell her. “Just big.”
Doesn’t mean I won’t watch them the whole time they’re together, though. No sense being careless.
“That’s good. I, um, have something for you. Don’t go anywhere.”
If only she knew.
Tess ducks inside her apartment, returning again with a purple box in her hands. She walks over, smile bright, and holds it out to me.
My gaze drops to the box. “What is it?”
Why would she bring me anything? We don’t know each other. We’ve barely spoken.
The bigger question: why is my heart racing over a nondescript purple box?
“They’re cupcakes. From our bakery.” She lifts the box a touch higher.
Her smile cranks up, tightening something in my chest. I ignore the smile and the too-tight sensation behind my ribs.
People love to bring food after a tragedy. It’s the only thing they can think to do. Your father died from a stroke at fifty-five? Here’s a casserole. Your mother had a double mastectomy to combat her aggressive cancer? Here’s a lasagna. You lost your leg in a stupid accident? Here’s a platter of enchiladas.
I don’t move to take her offering. “Why would you bring me cupcakes?”
She hesitates, putting my defenses on red alert.
“You haven’t come by the bakery, so I thought I’d bring them to you instead.”
This is where most people drop their gaze to my legs, giving their motivations away. Morbid curiosity always has a tell. But Tess keeps her eyes on mine. If anything, she seems amused by my reluctance.
